Arno, the wildest and most powerful robber knight of the Harz, dwelt securely enthroned in his strong Burg, the Arnstein, which lay on the Felsberg like an eagle's nest, from whose strong walls the old eagle flew daily forth for robbery and murder. He and his castle were inaccessible; frequently, when the inhabitants of the neighbourhood had united to storm his nest, he had sent them home with bleeding heads, and each time punished them by making worse disturbance than before.
The citizens of the near-situated Aschersleben suffered most by these raids; for when in the sweat of the brow they had cultivated their fields, and rejoiced in view of the approaching harvest, Arno would swoop down like a bird of prey, and gather the rich grains and fruits into his barns; and when the wealthy merchants of Magdeburg, Ascherslebeh, and Nordhausen, reckoning how they could make what was worth fifty per cent. bring a hundred, travelled past, he took pity on their problem-solving souls, and relieved their weary brains of the difficult calculations and the burden of sales by carrying off their goods to his castle—sometimes, indeed, the merchants themselves, whose friends redeemed them with heavy sums.
Often he kidnapped maidens, and it was not at all unwelcome to him, as one day, while he lay in vain in wait for booty, a troop of young girls showed itself near the wood where he lay hidden.
It was then, and is still in some Harz villages, the custom on the wedding-day of a youthful pair to lead the bride out upon a mountain or a meadow, where her friends seek to take from her the bridal wreath. Dancing and singing they follow the fleeing bride, who strives to keep her treasure as long as possible, hides behind hedges and underbrush, till at last they rob her of her wreath and carry it in triumph to the bridegroom. It was such a bridal party that issued this day from the gates of Aschersleben, to enjoy the fun after the fashion of their ancestors, for the fairest flower of Askania, Ida, a merchant's daughter, celebrated her wedding.
How her bridal veil and ribbons fluttered and shimmered in the wind and sun, as she in the joy of her heart, light of foot as a fawn, flew over the meadow, pursued by her laughing companions.
Shouts of merriment and scraps of song rang over the laughing landscape to the wood where Arno lay concealed, watching the charming scene.
"Little maiden!" thought he, "if no train of waggons comes that I prefer, I can take thee; that is not difficult, and costs no blood."
And as the train came near, and the bride, ever in advance, would hide in the thicket, he seized her and bore her pitilessly away. The other maidens searched long in vain, till at last they caught sight of the fleeing robber with his booty.
What consternation! what lamentations! Breathless they fled back to the town, proclaiming the dreadful news with loud cries.
All became uproar, women ran moaning through the streets, girls locked themselves in their rooms, as if the robber were behind them, the older citizens talked and reasoned, the younger swore revenge, and the members of the town council moved with solemn steps and imposing mien toward the town hall, where the walls of the dark council chamber should become silent witnesses of all the wisdom of their puffed-up pride and self-importance.
Evening came on, the council chamber was lighted; the palate of each worthy member of the council rebelled against the fatigue of a longer sitting, and at last the Bürgermeister raised his voice and addressed his colleagues: "It is necessary, honourable gentlemen, that we come to a decision, and as it has been proved, through reliable witnesses, that the robber of the bride is our dangerous neighbour, the Earl von Arnstein, and the crime has been committed within the territory of our town, and as such a crime is punishable with death, we sentence the said Arno to death by the hangman, do we not?"
"Yes, your Worship!" cried the chamberlain.
"Of course!" said the syndic.
"Certainly!" echoed the town clerk.
"Certainly!" agreed every member of the council unanimously.
"If we take into consideration," continued the Bürgermeister, "how much damage the said Arno of Arnstein has caused, death by the sword is too mild. Shall he not die on the wheel, or be quartered?"
"Of course!" said the chamberlain, with a knowing nod.
"Certainly!" agreed the syndic.
"How wise!" cried one part of the councillors; "How just!" another.
"I am of opinion," resumed the Bürgermeister, "that the execution should take place immediately, before the said Arno does any more mischief."
"Of course! of course!" cried the assembly.
"But—but—a—" resumed his Worship, hesitating and undecided, "we must first have the criminal in our power, and that is—not—so—easy a matter. Can any one offer advice as to what is to be done?"
Silence! All were dumb. At last one cried, "We must take him prisoner!"
"Quite right," voted the councillors; "he must be taken prisoner."
"That is also my opinion," said the Bürgermeister. "Nevertheless it—is—no—easy matter—to accomplish. We could march out at once with all the armed men we possess, and storm——"
"Yes, yes," cried the syndic, "we will storm the nest!"
"We will storm it!" exclaimed the town clerk, with a look intended to be brave.
"How wise! how heroic!" was the praise on every lip, while the Bürgermeister continued his interrupted address: "But we have already experienced the fact that the Arnstein is not easy to seize.By force nothing can be done."
"No, by force nothing can be done!" echoed the assembly as one man.
"We might attempt to take him by strategy," continued the orator; "but Arno is cunning as a fox, and we should probably only expose our town to more robbery if he discovered that we were trying to waylay him."
"Certainly! certainly!" agreed every mouth.
"Hence I give it as my opinion," concluded the Bürgermeister, "that as force and stratagem would only bring upon us expense and danger, and the result is uncertain, that—that—a—that we allow the matter to rest as it is, and leave the criminal to the punishment of Heaven. Do you not think so, gentlemen?"
"Certainly, your Worship, certainly! How wise! how mild! how forbearing!" shouted the assembly.
The Bürgermeister rose with official dignity, dismissed his colleagues with a wave of the hand, and the exhausted councillors were in the act of retiring, when the unhappy bridegroom rushed breathless into their midst.
"What is decided?" he cried hastily, and seized the syndic by the arm.
"What's that to you?" growled that dignitary, who felt himself insulted by such familiarity. "How do you dare to force yourself unbidden into the council chamber?"
"I beg your pardon, gentlemen," stammered the bridegroom, surprised. "I come to give you a capital piece of advice—the idea just occurred to me."
Every face grew long from assumed dignity.
"What! you will give advice? You—to us?"
But as the young man entreated them to hear him, the Bürgermeister permitted him to speak, provided he would be short.
The bridegroom unfolded his plan, which, though unwillingly, was approved of.
Meanwhile, Arno concluded that his robbery of the bride was undiscovered, and was strengthened in this idea, as some days after he saw a group of maidens, decked in bridal array, issue forth from the town to the same meadow.
Suddenly he resolved to carry off one of them, and when they had danced themselves weary and had thrown themselves down on the grass to rest, he rushed out of the wood, and, like a vulture, swooped down upon his prey.
But, to his astonishment, the maiden, instead of resisting, held him fast, and the others drew forth daggers and attacked and killed his retainers. Resistance was useless; he could not free himself from the powerful arms of the disguised soldier. They dragged him to Aschersleben, and shut him up in a cage, where he starved to death.
The bridegroom put on Arno's armour, and the troop, concealed in loaded wagons, were conducted to the Arnstein by the disguised bridegroom. The warder saw the train approaching, and at once opened the gates to admit it.
Too late, when all were within the walls, he discovered his error. Soon they had possession of the stronghold, and the bride was restored to the bridegroom.
The cage they still show in Aschersleben, and the meadow is still called the Dance meadow.
There is a tradition of another knight of Arnstein, who, cold and cruel to all who in the least displeased him, was buried in the now ruined chapel. His ghost still haunts the ruins.
His second wife, a cruel step-mother, who oppressed her beautiful step-daughter, keeps him company. She is the spinner of the Arnstein, doomed to spin on till her web breaks, when her spirit will be set free.
Whether the ghostly monk bore relation to this cruel pair we are not told. He visits the ruins, probably nightly, but can only be seen every seven years by those who were born on St. John's Eve. His duty is to chastise idle and deceitful servants.
An old, poor, but honest man left his cottage to gather sticks and healing herbs in the wood for sale in the neighbouring town.
He soon had a huge bundle of sticks bound together for his weary, bent back—bent from the burden of toil and of years—and a luxuriance of the healing woodroofs made gathering them a light task; but when he reached the town everybody said, "What's the need of wood now, when it is summer?"
And the apothecary declared, "It is June, and the blossoms have already absorbed all the strength of the plants. You must bring them henceforth in May."
No one had an ear for the entreaties of the distressed man, and he set off for home hopeless and discouraged. He saw no way of deliverance out of his deplorable condition, no relief for his suffering wife. "Yes," he sighed, "if the bell in Wimmelburg had not been melted in the last fire, the bell through which God, the good Father, cured every sick person who heard its tones, there might be help for my poor wife; or, if it is not all a fable, of the great treasure which the monks buried in Sittichenbach, and we could find it; or, if it is true about the hidden treasure in Eisleben, that only he can find who can watch four-and-twenty days and nights without closing his eyes. Oh! I could watch the time, for sorrow keeps me awake every night. But all these tales must be only fancies, and the benevolent fairies in these mountains, who used to help the poor when they were near despair, are most likely long since gone, or else my trouble would have brought them to my relief. And with men, oh! with men there is no pity!"
It seemed to him by these reflections as if a long, giant, shadowy form brushed past him in the twilight, whispering in his ear, "Do not despair."
He looked up, but saw nothing but the shadow of the oak under which he sat, heard nothing save the sighing of the evening wind in its branches.
With a tear in his eye, he took the bundle of wood on his back and went on. A moment after he saw a shining object on his path. "Ei! what a beautiful pebble!" he thought. "I will take it home for the children to play with."
It was already late when he reached his cottage, and mother and children were asleep. The thought of their distress when they awoke caused him to try what he could do in the village, but all were deaf to his entreaties. It was a very dark night, and returning home from the village and opening the cottage door he almost sank down from terror, for it was light as if the house were on fire. He opened the door leading into the court; there it was as if all were in flames. He stood astonished, and gazed at the wonderful light, observed the direction whence it came, and perceived it came from the little room in which he had laid the pebble on the window bench.
He recollected the stone he had picked up, and the belief in a good mountain spirit, and hurried to the room.
The varied splendid colours of the pebble quite dazzled his eyes; he wrapped it in a cloth, and hastened to his neighbour Bergmann, who knew all the stones of the Harz, and showed it to him.
Bergmann examined it well, and said, "I don't know this stone, but it must be worth money. Come with me to-morrow to the town, and if you only get a Thaler for it, it is some help."
The following day they went to a jeweller, a Jew, and offered him the stone. Hardly had he cast eyes on it than he started, and cried, "Wonderful! How did you come by the stone?"
The poor man was so frightened he was unable to reply; but Bergmann, who had more experience, said, "It does not matter where the stone comes from; you need only tell us how much you will give for it."
"Well!" replied the Jew, "shall I have it for a hundred Thaler?"
"How much?" cried the finder, who could hardly believe his ears. "I am not in a mood for jokes; say honestly how much you will give."
"What, did I say a hundred Thaler?" replied the Jew, for he thought the apparent anger of the seller had another cause. "I beg pardon; I meant to say a thousand Thaler."
The two friends were speechless with astonishment; Bergmann, however, answered, "How could you make us such an offer? Give us the stone, for you will not pay what it is worth."
"Indeed you are right," said the Jew with a low bow. "You must be joking with poor Levi, for you must know I could not command a sufficient sum to buy so costly a jewel."
The amazement of the two friends increased every moment, for the Jew was known to be one of the richest men in the place. Bergmann, however, replied with caution, "You have guessed it; we only made a joke of the matter, and came really to beg you to recommend a purchaser."
"Why should I not?" replied the jeweller. "But as true as I am an honest Jew, there is only one person in the whole German Empire that could purchase the jewel, and that is Fugger in Augsburg."
"And how high do you value it?"
"Well," said Levi, after having put his spectacles again on his nose, and examining the stone carefully, "if I am to give my honest opinion, it is worth three kingdoms."
The finder almost lost his equilibrium, while Bergmann put his hand to his head to see if it stood in the right place. "Three kingdoms, did you say?"
"Three kingdoms; and the purchaser could make money in the transaction."
An hour after, the two friends stood before the treasurer of the Prince, for the finder could not make up his mind to undertake the journey to Augsburg until he had provided for his wife and children, and asked him if he would advance a hundred thousand Thaler on the jewel, till they could sell it to Fugger.
But the treasurer was a vicious and avaricious man, who resolved to have the stone at any price, even by force if necessary, and as the friends would leave him, he threatened to throw them into prison if the stone were not delivered to him as his property for the hundred thousand Thaler.
To prevent unpleasantness they consented, and went home laden with gold.
Mother and children were provided with every comfort, and soon after they went to live in Aschersleben, for they could not be happy among people who had refused assistance in their need but fawned upon them now they were become rich.
The Jew received a handsome sum, and Bergmann was independent for life through his grateful friend.
But how did matters go with the dishonourable treasurer? His punishment was swift and terrible.
The next day he broke a piece from the stone, the tenth part of it, and presented himself before the Prince.
"Your Highness has given me a command to purchase jewels, as precious and costly as were to be found, that you might present them to the Princess of the adjoining dominions, and thereby win her hand and realm.
"I have not been able to find anything costly enough, and hence only one thing remains to be done. I possess a stone of priceless value, an heirloom of my family, which one of my ancestors took from a Mahomedan Sultan. I will resign it, however painful it may be. Only look at it and judge if any female heart could withstand such splendour. The Princess will bestow her hand upon your Highness, and I only ask in payment a few towns and villages, and a thousand acres of forest, and a thousand acres of arable land. Judge if I am unreasonable."
"Thou shalt have it; thou shalt have more than thy demand!" cried the Prince, as he beheld the glittering jewel, and embraced the treasurer, called him friend and brother, and commanded his secretary to draw up the documents giving the treasurer the half of his kingdom.
The treasurer went joyfully home, dreaming of princely honours, for had he not still a greater part of the stone in his possession?
Meanwhile the Prince called his favourite courtiers, and showed them the stone. No one spoke for astonishment. At last one of the surveyors of the mines remarked how wonderful it was that many pebbles possessed such brilliant colours, and it was to be regretted that they faded in a few days.
"What? a pebble?" cried the Prince.
"Yes, your Highness, only a pebble."
"A pebble? Not a precious stone? Then I have been deceived."
"Has your Highness bought it at a high price? Such stones are found in the earth, but the sunlight soon fades the colours."
"I have promised the treasurer half my kingdom for the stone."
Command was given to arrest the treasurer, but a friend had given him warning, and he had fled. They pursued him, the Prince at their head, found the unhappy man, deceived as well as deceiving, in a tree, and shot him dead on the spot.
It was at Whitsuntide of the year 1292, as tradition tells us, that the town council of the free, imperial Möhlhausen issued a proclamation, that whoever could discover and conduct a spring into the upper town, which suffered much from fires through want of water, should be richly rewarded; and in case he had committed a crime, he should be pardoned.
At that time a monk of Kloster Reifenstein sat in the dungeon of the Rabenthurm[1]—now called the Adlerthurm[2]—-under sentence of death.
[1]Rabenthurm—raven tower.
[2]Adlerthurm—eagle tower.
In the days of his freedom, when he had gone on affairs concerning his convent from Pfaffenrode to St. Daniel, he had often seen a spring among the hills.
The proclamation of the council penetrated to his criminal cell, and he recalled this spring to his memory, and felt a wild longing through it to regain his freedom.
But the spring bubbled up in a deep valley, and a long chain of hills lay between it and the town.
And the monk thought and studied, for before his soul stood the fragrant dishes of his convent and the costly wines, as attractive as the fleshpots of Egypt to the Jews; but with this vision stood the hangman, hand-in-hand with the impossibility of moving this spring through these hills, grinning in diabolical glee. He tossed restless on his bed of straw, longing for the dawn.
Now he sank into an uneasy slumber, disturbed by the most frightful dreams. The Rabenthurm seemed to quake and tremble, he heard distant thunder, and saw the glare of the lightning.
Now the foul fiend stood by his miserable bed tempting him.
In exchange for his soul, he promised to conduct the water of the spring to the upper town, and produced a roll of parchment containing a plan of the work.
At length the unhappy man consented to the proposals.
Again he dreamed of his childhood, of his dead mother, of the fields and woods where he gathered the first daisies and violets of spring; and now again he listened to the raging storm.
At break of day the monk opened the fatal roll. Judge of his astonishment and joy, as he saw the way marked out over hills and through ravines, by which the spring could be conducted with little difficulty to the place required.
He immediately made his proposals to the council.
His freedom was promised him if the work succeeded, and a body of labourers was given him for the carrying out of his plan.
And soon the crystal stream gladdened the thirsting upper town with an abundance of water.
But the monk, so soon as he had fulfilled his contract, disappeared, and even gratitude could find no trace of him. He was never seen again.
In the thirteenth century there lived in Mühlhausen a respectable locksmith, who was also an alderman.
This Herr Adam had six sons and an only daughter, Hildegard, who was the loveliest maiden of all the plains of Germany.
The father's pride and joy were in these children, but his happiness was doomed to annihilation.
A wild and lawless knight of the Castle Hainerburg surprised Hildegard alone at home, her father and brothers being absent in the terrors of a fire in the city, and carried her off in a deadly swoon to his castle. Inexpressible rage filled the hearts of the citizens at the news of this violence, and they agreed to unite the coming week for the destruction of the castle.
But the father, distracted with grief, determined at once to rescue his child.
The very next night, the Ritter of the Hainerburg being absent on some villainous scheme, the father with his six sons knelt in the church of the Virgin, and besought her aid in his bold project.
And the petition was heard, for midnight was hardly past before the knights left behind in the Burg had been overpowered by the strong arms of the avengers of innocence, and thrust in the deepest dungeon.
They prayed again for strength, and now the walls and towers fell thundering into the moat, for the Virgin had appeared on the battlements encouraging them, and their strength had become superhuman.
And when morning dawned, the sun illuminated only a shapeless mass of ruins, and on the ruins the conquerors knelt and thanked heaven for the given strength.
Great were the jubilee and gratitude of the citizens when they saw the fallen fortress, and great their praise of the victors.
The fair Hildegard retired to the Brücken Kloster, where she died; and still the maidens of Mühlhausen sing many a song of her beauty and singular fate at the joyful dance of theKirchweihfest.[1]
[1] In Germany an annual festival is held in commemoration of the dedication of the church of the place, called theKirchweihfest—dedication festival. Feasting, dancing, and universal merriment are the order of the day. Friends are invited from far and near, and it is an occasion of general re-union in the parish.
On a flying buttress of the colossal Marienkirche, in Mühlhausen, are three stone partridges, and I am about to explain to you how they came there.
At the time when Germany was in the middle of the great Reformation contest, two prelates sat together with their well-filled—for the empty ones were speedily filled—wine-cups before them, and discussed the pros and cons of the Reformed doctrines, and whether Mühlhausen was likely to adopt the Lutheran creed.
At last one of the reverend prelates grew angry and exclaimed: "Those three partridges now turning on the spit in the kitchen will fly, before the faith of the heretical Augustine monk will gain power in this good city."
But, lo! scarcely were the haughty words uttered, when a cooing and a fluttering of wings were heard.
The prelates fled in a fright, seeing themselves robbed of their dinner; the partridges flew forth and settled on a buttress, where they were turned to stone, and remained as heralds of the dawn of a better day.
The forester of Scharzfels, with his gun on his shoulder, was one day sauntering through the wood, when, as he turned a corner, he saw three men in a young plantation digging, and thereby doing much mischief.
Already a strong oath was on his lips as the figures turned round and, through their odd, foreign appearance, frightened back every expression of anger.
One was a tall, from the weight of years not much bent, grey-headed old man. His bald head, from which on each side short silver locks hung down, a long white beard falling over his breast, the lean, stern features, and the black robe, gave him the appearance of an anchorite.
The second was a strong, powerful youth with flaming eyes. An odd-shaped, pointed hat rested on his curly black hair, and an uncultivated beard covered the lower part of his face.
The third was a noble, imposing form, the fearless countenance framed in a thousand auburn locks of curly hair; the eye was full of fire and courage, the bold lips full of power.
All three looked at the approaching huntsman with so much firmness and composure that he was only able to inquire, "What are you doing here, gentlemen? You are trampling under foot the young growths, and with your scraping and digging you will destroy many a thriving tree."
One of the strangers replied to this address mildly, regretted that they certainly had caused a little damage, but that was unfortunately not to be prevented, since they sought just on this very spot certain stones which were absolutely necessary to them, and that they were come from a great distance to make the search.
They expressed themselves, however, willing to make indemnification, if the forester would only make his demands.
A further conversation betrayed to the forester that the strangers were Venetians, and the result of it was that he permitted them to depart without hindrance, or without accepting the smallest indemnity.
Several years passed away; but every St. John's Day the forester saw and spoke with the same three strangers.
At last, one sultry summer afternoon, he threw himself down under a tree, and soon sank into a deep sleep.
How long he had slept he could not tell; as he opened his eyes he saw himself in a perfectly strange place, in which directly before him rose a stately, wonderful castle, surrounded by a high wall.
Terrified, the forester gazed around. It was certain that he had never before seen the neighbourhood, and that he had been transplanted from Scharzfels to the spot by enchantment.
In the anguish of his spirit he said the Creed, the Lord's Prayer, theAve Maria, prayers for storms, and all the others he could think of, all mingled in the wildest confusion, like one who had taken leave of his senses.
But whether it was that he had left out a word, or was not earnest and devotional enough, the castle and its enclosing walls stood immovable.
The terrified man knew of nothing better to do than to resign himself to his fate, and to observe more closely his surroundings.
Dark cypresses rose behind the stone walls, and fig trees thrust their wonderfully crooked fingers forward, as if they would draw him in; shining lizards crept up the wall, glanced at him with their glittering eyes, and then wriggled hurriedly into the garden, which he could see through a grated gate under a great arch.
Behind and among the shrubbery and trees he could see all sorts of marble figures; goat-footed heathen gods, making awful faces; small hump-backed dwarfs with cocked hats; hunters with puffed-out cheeks blowing the horn; ladies with farthingales and horse-heads; urns around which salamanders, dragons, and other poisonous worms, with open jaws and red tongues, dragged their slimy lengths; and many other indescribable, diabolical objects.
Among all these grinning creatures strutted a peacock, in which certainly pride made a most ridiculous figure, as he craned his beautiful neck in the brilliant sunlight, and dragged his gorgeous tail—alas! by means of the ugliest feet and legs ever made.
Suddenly the gilded, grated door flew open, an old Moor came out, bowed low before the forester with his hands meekly crossed before him, invited him by a wave of the hand to follow him, and both entered the garden.
Intoxicating clouds of perfume floated toward him from every bush and hedge.
Wonderful, never-before-seen flowers nodded to him in greeting from their slender stalks, and bent before him their lovely heads.
Brilliant birds flew from branch to branch before him, and sang with almost human voice.
Then an ugly sea-cat threw itself down from some tree, with its winding tail twisted around some branch, ground the teeth with a horrid grin, and sprang back into the thick foliage.
From a side path a purple stork came forward with solemn gravity, twisted the long neck up and down to affected compliment, scraped with his thin legs behind him, and then walked resolutely before the forester and the conducting Moor, looking almost constantly back to see if they were following.
In one of the marble basins a stone vintager upset continually the cask, and the clear, foaming new wine that streamed from the bung-hole bubbled up in the face of the sipping boy; in another an idol, ending in a fish's tail, blew out of a shell the clear stream in the air, and the dust of drops shone in the light like diamonds and rubies. White temples with ivy-entwined pillars glittered behind the hedges.
The forester followed like one in a dream, resisting, yet drawn on by an irresistible, enchanting power, until they reached a colossal castle, built in a style perfectly unknown to him.
He climbed a marble flight of steps, and went on over costly carpets, so soft and smooth that he could not hear his own steps.
The fragrance of balsamic spices floated delightfully on the air from censers in every chamber.
Richly-worked tapestry covered the walls, the softest cushions invited to repose, the light, like a soft twilight, fell through green windows, and composed the spirit to a sweet calmness and peace.
From the lofty ceiling rare birds warbled their delicious melodies in golden cages, and a grey parrot sat on his perch and pecked with his crooked bill the golden wires of his hated cage.
Here the Moor stood still, threw open a folding-door and pushed the benumbed forester into a great salon.
In the vast chamber he stood fascinated, like one under enchantment, and gazed upon the extraordinary objects on every side. Around the costly chamber, near the magnificent walls, stood all sorts of animals in life-size, in beaten gold, a perfect imitation of nature. Amazed, the forester gazed at the beautiful forms. He never could have satisfied his eyes with looking; and who knows how long he might have stood there, if through another door the three men had not entered whom he had so often seen near Scharzfels?
They approached him, pressed his hand in the most friendly manner, and inquired how the chamber pleased him, and which piece he would choose.
After he had expressed his astonishment at the way he had been introduced into the castle, the forester, in reply to the question as to what object he should prefer if permitted to choose, said he would unhesitatingly select the stag with his beautiful antlers.
After some conversation, the eldest of the three said: "You have known us many years, and are aware that we went frequently to Scharzfels to search for metals and stones, which you stupid Germans do not prize, but which are, notwithstanding, of great value. We have now sufficient wealth, but we would wish to thank you for your forbearance, and entertain you as an honoured guest."
The forester was conducted to asalle à mangerglittering with gold, silver, and crystal. The rarest exotics beautified the table, and stood in graceful baskets and vases in every part of the apartment.
The most delicious viands and oldest wines were served, and not till a late hour did the merry party seek repose. The forester sank, in his silken couch, quickly into the arms of friendly sleep.
On awaking, he looked in surprise around him, for he lay under the shady beach in full view of Schloss Scharzfels.
"What a droll dream!" he cried, springing up and brushing the grass and moss from his clothes. But he stood as if transfixed, as he beheld the stag he wished for—the golden stag with great diamond eyes—lying in the grass beside him! The three men he never saw again, not even on St. John's Day.
[1]Steinkirche—stone church.
In the grey days long ago, when paganism ruled the land, there stood on the hills near the cave called the Steinkirche—altars to the gods.
Bright were the fires to Krodo in the darkness of the night, and on the opposite cliffs rose the fire pillar in honour of the goddess Ostera.[2]
[2] FromOsterawe have the name Easter.
The crackling flames illuminated the country and the mountains, and invited the inhabitants of the near-lying vales and heights to the wild customs, the bloody sacrifices, and the raving dance of heathenism.
Then came from a southern land a hermit to this district. He beheld the smoking sacrificial altars, he heard the songs of the reeling, staggering heathen, and with a slow and solemn tread he climbed the mountain.
The peculiar, reverence-awaking appearance of the stranger produced quiet among the raging throng. One seated himself here, another there, another leaned on his spear, and all listened in silence and attention to what the strange figure might have to say to them.
And as the tempest with hollow moans and wails sweeps over the tree-tops, so the aged stranger lifted up his voice, and preached to the assembly the Christian faith with ever-increasing enthusiasm.
At first they heard quietly his earnest words; but as he began to condemn the gods so dear to them, and challenged them to break in pieces their idols, and turn to the worship of the only true God, their rage kindled.
They sprang to their feet, forced him to silence, and after a short consultation voted unanimously that the blasphemer of their gods must die.
In a few moments the trembling old man was seized by the giant forms, led down from the summit of the mountain to a place suitable for the execution.
The hermit sent up a petition to the Almighty for strength and courage in the trying moment, released himself from their arms with a Samson strength, seized from one standing next him a wooden battle-axe, and thus addressed the bloodthirsty multitude:
"So sure as I with this weak tool split this firm rock, so sure as this wood produces a temple for the worship of the one eternal God in this immovable mass of stone, so true is the word, the gospel, which I proclaim to you."
When he had uttered these words, he struck with trembling arm the rough cliff, and lo! the firm rock yielded like soft clay to the weak blow of the wooden axe!
And at this moment the sun shone forth from behind thick clouds, bathing rocks and wood with a warm, rosy light, and the birds in a thousand voices sang the praises of Creator and Father.
And the hearts of the wild Sassen[3] were opened; with one mind they sank on their knees in reverence and adoration before the God of the white-headed old man who had received the power to work such a miracle.
[3]Sassen—Old German for Saxon.
They vowed to a man henceforth to forsake the worship of Krodo, to remain true to the new faith, followed the venerable hermit to the banks of the Oder, and were baptized into Christ's death and resurrection, and from every side the people flocked to hear the words of the apostle.
Thus was formed in the rugged, steep cliff the primeval cave, the Steinkirche, the meeting-place of the first Christians of this neighbourhood.
In the middle of fruitful fields and green meadows not far from Scharzfels rises the ball-shaped alabaster Romerstein, on whose summit ragged cliffs rise in the air resembling the ruins of a castle.
In the days before authentic history a race of giants dwelt hereabout, who, fearing the mountain-spirit,[1] piled up these cliffs and constructed thus a giant fortress, of which these cliffs are the proud remains.
[1]Berggeist.
Romar, a blooming youth of this race, was once hunting in the neighbouring forest for deer or wild boar.
The soft air fanned gently his glowing face, the birds sang in the thicket, and the gentle influence of the hour led him to slacken his pace.
Suddenly he stood still before a maiden asleep on a mossy bank under the rustling trees.
Silently admiring, Romar gazed at the sleeping beauty, and the sweetest emotions filled his breast, till the stranger opened her eyes and beheld him, uttered a scream of terror, sprang up, and fled into the thickest of the forest.
A moment Romar stood rooted to the ground; then coming to his senses, he followed the fleeing maiden, and, soon overtaking her, quieted her fears by kind and honest words; and this first meeting gave rise to many others. All suspicion, every fear vanished, and love speedily filled the maiden's heart.
Romar inquired after the descent of his beloved, and turned pale as he discovered that she was a nymph, and the daughter of the Berggeist, so hostile to his race, and a river goddess, and dwelt in the neighbouring mountain lake.
The nymph reassured him, told him she was her father's favourite, and he had never refused her a single request, and certainly would not refuse his consent to their union.
Accordingly, during the absence of the Berggeist, they were married.
A long time had passed, and Romar slept one day under an oak near Ruma, who held a lovely boy in her arms. Her father, returning from his journey, stepped out of the thicket, and came suddenly upon them.
His first glance at the pair told him what had happened, and a smothered tone of anger forced itself from his trembling lips.
Terrified, the nymph sprang up, and as she saw her secret discovered, and her father so enraged, she rushed toward him and entreated him to be calm. Romar now came forward and sought from the old mountain god reconciliation; but the latter only became more enraged.
A wave of his hand called whole troops of well-armed dwarfs together, who were commanded to lead away mother and child; while others so maltreated Romar, that he only escaped covered with wounds to the Giant Castle.
The Berggeist now tormented his unhappy daughter every hour to give up her husband. But her love for Romar only increased, and her father in his insane rage seized the child, broke it in pieces on the rocks, cursed and swore because he could not take the same measures with his mother, created with a wave of his hand the cave, the Weingarten Höhle, banished her into it, and left her with a laugh of scorn.
Banished into the earth, shut up in a cave, the entrance guarded by malicious cobolds, the wretched Ruma sought to reach Romar, and a succession of cavings in proves her efforts to set herself free; but her watchful father always thrust her back into the depths of the earth.
At last, after long years, she succeeded, by a subterranean way, in escaping from her father's dominions, as a full stream to spring into the light of day, and at a time when he, by the decree of an inscrutable destiny, had been attacked by a sort of torpor, she reached her old residence, the Nymph's lake, and was reunited to her faithful husband.
The river which springs from the mountain on the border of the Gyps mountains is called, in honour of the faithful, loving nymph, the Ruma. Still its waters redden with the blood of her innocent child.
The cliffs of the ruinated Giant Castle wear mourning still, and bear the name of the hero, the Romerstein, or Romar's rock.
Not far from the Lautenthal there existed in the pre-historic times the Schloss Schiltberg, or Schildberg, of whose builders, destroyers, and history we know next to nothing. All we know is that the Kaiser Frederic I., in war against Henry the Lion, took the castle in 1180.
On the rugged, precipitous rocks stand the ruins of a dilapidated tower, now half veiled by clouds and mists, now echoing the roar of the savage tempest.
Beneath, in the still valley, is a half-sunken grave, and a weeping willow spreads sadly her branches over it. Above, on the wild rocks, once stood a strong castle, whose walls hid many a deed of horror and crime. Below, in the peaceful vale, there was a small, simple hermitage, where an old hermit had dwelt alone long years.
From the high fortress the robber-band of knights rode down the mountain, for they perceived the long-desired prey in the distance.
Beneath, by the quiet hermitage, appeared the pious old hermit, looked reprovingly upon them, and shook his silver-white locks.
"Ye wild knights!" he cried, "ye shall no longer bring disgrace and shame upon the honour of knighthood. No longer shall ye march forth to rob and plunder. Know, thou leader of thy robber-troop, thy time is expired. Enter my hermitage, confess, and take the communion, for thou shalt never again ride living into the valley."
But the proud knight fell in a rage at the solemn admonition. "Punish the old bird of ill omen!" he cried in a fury, and rode away.
Now the hermitage chapel is wrapped in flames, and the aged hermit sinks to the ground from many wounds.
Dying, he stretches forth his hands in pain, and cries after the retreating knight, "Ride on, ride till the judgment day; ride every night through the forests, till thy horse sinks exhausted under thee, and may no pious one meet thee, but only the foul fiend of perdition!"
Mourning, the robber-band rode back to the high castle, for their leader had fallen with his horse and broken his neck.
They laid him in the still vault, but he cannot enjoy the peace of the grave. When the moonbeams fall soft and pale on castle and rocks, he tears in a wild gallop on his black horse below into the quiet valley.
To the grave of the hermit is the ghostly ride, and there, a grey, bleeding shadow, stands the murdered old man.
And a ghostly voice whispers, "Ride on, wicked knight, till the day of eternal retribution; but do not terrify the good, only the wicked. And where the stumbling of thy horse once brought thee death, there shall thy ride end, there shalt thou stumble every night."
Already long the castle has laid in ruins; but the knight rides ever, without rest, on a wild black steed from its lonely tower to the hermit's weeping-willow-shaded grave; and the enchantment can only be broken when the robber-knight, on his night ride, meets one more wicked than himself.
In the neighbourhood of Leesen lies a spot called Silberhohl. It is almost round, and several feet deeper than the ground around it, and quite overgrown with swamp-moss. People go by with a shudder, for there is something the matter with the place.
Centuries ago a stately castle stood on the spot, in which there was always much drinking, gambling and wild merriment.
The nobles of the castle acted as if they owned the whole world; and everything did belong to them that they could take by force, for they lived by robbing, and were guilty of much violence and cruelty.
One could say with truth, there was not a single good heart in the Burg except the young girl Jutta. Everybody loved her, and often, when the robbers had marched out to plunder, she would visit the poor and the sick, and even the robbed, giving them food and the money she had saved. The suffering and poor called her Saint Jutta.
Once the robbers had committed a monster crime. Covered with the blood of those they had robbed, they returned laden with booty to the castle.
Soon the goblets stood on the oaken tables, and the unholy, lawless revel began.
Suddenly the most terrible thunder rolled, a mighty flash of lightning swept the hall, the earth quaked and opened, the walls trembled, the tower shook and fell with an awful noise that was heard miles away. All sank in the gulf, which closed again, and nothing was left of the castle but a deep round spot where it had stood.
Many came to see the place so marked by a Divine vengeance, and every one said, "Poor Jutta!"
Not long after the destruction of the Burg, a poor woman in a neighbouring village fell ill. She wept sore, for her three little children cried for bread, and she could work no longer.
The mother folded her hands and prayed. Then she said to herself, "Oh! if the dear Jutta were only alive!"
Then the door was opened softly; a light form wrapped in a white veil, with a gleaming diadem in her hair, came forward to the bed.
"Jutta!" cried the poor mother.
The figure waved the hand, glanced kindly at the sleeping children, set down a peculiar shaped basket on a table, drew a cross over the mother, and vanished.
A deep sleep fell on the poor woman, and when she awoke the next morning she found the basket full of gold pieces.
[1] The valley of the lute.
"Harmonieen hör' ich klingen,Töne süsser Himmelsrüh."
"Harmonies I hear resounding,Tones of sweet, heavenly music."
Why dost thou sit so lonely on the declivity of the mountain, innocent daughter of the Felsenburg? Why does the cloud of care rest on thy countenance? Why dost thou gaze with such sad longing into the vale below?
The light of thy eyes is dimmed by a tear; heavy and anxious rests thy curly head on thy snowy arm; as the heavenly glory crowns the head of a martyred saint, so the splendour of sunset bathes thy form. Deep and great must be the anguish that fills thy breast, and yet thou dost endure speechless and silent. Not a sigh breaks from thy swelling heart, not a lament from thy lips, not a sad note from the strings of the lute that lies hushed before thee.
Weep no longer, child of grief; brighten thy saddened countenance. He for whom thou art waiting, the beloved of thy soul, will come; he will come with the quick step of love, and his glance will chase away grief and care from thy soul.
Hark! Already it rustles in the wood, already his tread resounds on the rocks; he climbs the mountain.
With the bliss of the purest love he clasps the sorrowing maiden in his strong arms—and yet thou remainest in mourning and tears?
Fairest of the blue-eyed daughters of the Harz, is thy heart cold in presence of the flame of love, as the ice of the Brocken is proof against the sun of the spring-time?
Ah! not cold and hard was her heart; pure and tender, as the dewdrops in the lily, it lay in her innocent breast, and adorned the morning of her life, till the sunny fire of love smiled down upon her. Then a never-before-imagined bliss trembled through the pure flower, her heart was filled with joy, the clear dewdrop dissolved in love. The dewdrop belongs to the sunbeams, and the heart of the maiden to the youth she loves.
But fate was not favourable to the lovers—fate, the destroyer of so many blissful bonds.
Jutta was the daughter of a noble whose Schloss lay near Leesen, and Ernst the son of an old warrior, who, after having fought many a battle in his youth and won many honours, now poor, weak from wounds, and forgotten by the world, had retired into solitude, to spend the remainder of his days in memories of his active life, and in the education of his only son. Under his guidance Ernst grew up strong and free, a true son of the Harz, lofty of stature and of an exalted mind, with a noble heart and countenance, with a fearless glance and bold design.
Where the Innerste, which springs from the Barenbruche, approaches her issue from the Harz, she quickens her course, flowing among steep, well-wooded mountains in youthful mirth, or silently over sands, playing with the water-violets, which from the damp moss bend their blue heads in the crystal ripples. Beautiful rises on either bank the forest. Here grow mighty firs, whose roots spring from the metal-rich graywacke; there, slender beeches in the clay-slate; yonder, maples with their lovely leaves. Wild lettuce, yellow and red, grows next the round shave-grass, and the water-lily and mallow rock themselves on the fragrant banks; on the rocky mountain wall shimmers the white-browed swallow-wort, the saxifrage, and the yellow wall-pepper; from the mossy ground of the forest spring the flaming purple toad-stool, the agaric, and the pale goat's-beard.
The classic wood-singers fill the air with wondrous melodies.
From the topmost branches of the firs, where he has built his nest, the tiny greenfinch sings his little song. Beneath, on the river-banks, sounds the soft flute-like voice of the white-breasted plover, the whistling of the thistle-finch; and the blackbird and linnet, the cross-bill and thrush make the green halls merry with their ringing voices.
In this valley, on the rushing, roaring Innerste, stood the cottage of unhewn trees and stones, covered with moss, in which father and son led a contented life. A small garden surrounded it, in which Ernst loved to work; there he listened to the tales of his father, or hunted in the mountain forests.
One day, as he had gone in the direction of Goslar, a singular howling fell upon his ear. He listened, recognised the howl of a wolf, mingled with the piercing neighing of a horse in deadly terror, and at the same time saw a rider tearing in fear over the mountains, without giving any heed to his calls.
He hurried in the direction of the neighing and howling, where he heard at the same time a female voice crying for help.
A large wolf hung on the neck of the almost prostrate horse, on whose back sat a charming maiden.
To see this, and with practised hand to throw the javelin in the body of the beast of prey, that he sank at the feet of the horse, was the work of an instant. Quickly the youth thrust his hunting-knife in the beast, and the bowlings ceased.
The maiden was saved, and looked gratefully upon her deliverer—and what a look! An unspeakable bliss penetrated his breast, he stood speechless before the pure rescued maiden, and his whole soul hung on her eye.
It was not the rosy cheek, not the crimson lips, that wounded his heart so deliciously, but her eye.
The horse was not able to carry her home, her servant had fled, and Ernst undertook to conduct her to her father's Burg. Arrived there, not all the entreaties of the rescued maiden could induce him to enter, but already it was difficult to tear himself away.
The impression she had made did not escape her notice, and as she gave him her hand at parting, carried away by the depth of her own emotions, she yielded to his entreaties to meet him sometimes, and promised with tears in her eyes.
Ernst hunted no more on the mountains, but stood dreaming on a high spot whence he could see her father's castle. And when he espied Jutta with her lute descend into the castle garden, and wander into the wood, he rushed to meet her, and lived a blissful hour in listening to her voice and lute, and she at last confessed she loved him with all her heart.
But now a rich earl sought Jutta's hand, and the lord of the Felsenburg promised this suitor his daughter, because his debts were so great that only a wealthy son-in-law could save his estates.
In vain Jutta threw herself at her father's feet and declared she loved a handsome, good, and noble youth of ancient race.
"Is he rich?" was the father's sole question.
"No!" Alas, "no!" Ernst was in despair, and Jutta wept hours at a time, which only spoiled her pretty eyes without doing her the least good.
Jutta at last resolved to give up Ernst for her father's benefit, but she would see him once more, and assure him that her filial love could not lessen her affection for the choice of her heart.
That was what caused her sadness as we first saw her, and Ernst, as he rushed towards her, must have had some presentiment of the coming trouble in her resolve. But she could not tell him her purpose, and, as they parted, whispered, "to-morrow we will see each other again."
The following day was nearly gone, and evening had sent on her shadow before her. Jutta strengthened herself for her sad walk with a prayer, took her lute, and went through the garden into the forest, to the spot where she usually met her lover.
Ernst was not yet there. She walked some distance in the direction of his cottage to a projection of the mountain, whence she could look down into the vale, and waited there for him.
Lost in her sad thoughts, her fingers swept lightly the strings of the lute, calling forth soft melodious notes. Finding comfort in the tones, the harmonies grew louder and louder, and she listened with joy to the tones, now fancying them the voice of the nightingale or the thrush.
At last her hands swept wildly over the strings in the strength of her sorrow.
Meanwhile Ernst had approached. He listened amazed to the tones, which floated to meet him, sounding entirely different from anything he had ever heard from Jutta's lute before.
It was as if a clear harmonious voice called back every note that flew from the strings.
Slowly and in indescribable purity the harmonies echoed through the mountains, and just where Ernst stood the sweet tones trembled in the air, as if the whole vale were one great harp.
"Can there be a cave here," thought Ernst, "which has such a wonderful echo?" and turned over a moss-grown stone with his foot. Who shall describe his astonishment as he saw a white shimmering stone before him, which extended so deep as he removed the moss?
His exclamation brought Jutta to his side, who at the sight threw herself into his arms with tears of joy.
"We are saved! It is silver!" they both exclaimed in the same breath.
Of course the earl received aKorb.[2] Ernst and Jutta were married. Ernst became the director of the mine, loaded with honours for his discovery, and ever since the valley has been called the Valley of the Lute.
[2]Korb—basket.Er hat einen Korb bekomnen, is the German or "He has been rejected;" "he has got the mitten;" that is, "he has got the basket."
A HISTORICAL TALE.
On one of the border mountains, on the western slopes of the Harz, in gloomy desolation, rise the grey ruins of the old Schloss Staufenburg, which still remind us of a most romantic though sad history.
Home-like, and at the same time sublime, silent, and solitary, must have been this now destroyed seat of kaisers and princes in the mysterious Middle Ages. Its position is fascinating, surrounded on three sides by high wooded mountains, with a wide view open to the south, which was then probably partially shut out by the primeval dense forests, now, however, extending over the little mining town of Gittelde and the picturesque mountain landscape to Osterode and the high-seated Schloss Herzberg.
The magic of this picture is greatly enhanced by the soft lights of sunset, and the dim, semi-transparent mists, which like a floating veil half hide its beauties, and fill the excited fancy with a mysterious presage of that poetic something we call the Past.
The mountain—on which are decaying bits of walls, where, until a few years ago, a strong square tower, eighty feet in height, with openings here and there, looked solemnly down on the vale—is cut off sharp on the east, west, and south sides from its wooded brethren that rise high above it, only on the north side sloping gradually to its base; and it is on this side one climbs to the spot where Kaiser Henry the Vogler, or Fowler, had a decoy for birds.
The halls trodden by royalty, the boudoirs where Beauty ruled eight hundred years ago, are fallen into green ruin; the death-owl hoots, and bats and lizards house among their overgrown stones.
Many of these ruins on the borders of the Harz mountains remind us of Henry the Fowler, who built them to defend the plains and homes of this part of Germany from the wild and lawless Huns. As Duke of Saxony he is said to have lived here with his Duchess, in this hunting-seat, when he was chosen Kaiser of the holy Roman Empire in 920; several other places, however, claim the honour.
Later the Staufenburg came to the Earls of Katlenburg, who had their seat near; and after the extinction of this house it fell into the hands of the mighty Duke Henry the Lion, of Saxony and Brunswick, before whose sword even the powerful Barbarossa trembled, and remained in the possession of his descendants, several of whom wore the imperial crown.
The Harz forests with their rich stores of game attracted not seldom the hunt-loving princes of Brunswick to their deep shades, and horn and hound and the wild ho ho! hio hi! of the hunter were heard over mountain and vale.
Then came a calmer period for the old Staufenburg, as the retired seat of princely widows, and here lived, in the fourteenth century, the Duchess Elizabeth, widow of William the Younger.
Oblivion at last sits green a couple of centuries in this solitude, till it is chosen as the hiding-place of a sinful love, and wild tales came to be told among the simple mountaineers of a White Lady who haunted the castle.
On the grey stone balcony stood, one summer day in 1537, two persons in close conversation.
The lady, arrayed in white, was of remarkable and striking beauty. A tall form of the most perfect symmetry, brilliant white complexion, cheeks of a delicate rose, very large clear blue eyes, dark brown hair falling in luxuriant natural curls, and a dainty hand and foot, made her the delight of every eye that looked upon her.
The grace of all her movements seemed akin to poetry and music, and the expression of her radiant countenance betokened a noble and amiable mind.
Her companion, Duke Henry the Younger, of Brunswick-Lüneburg-Wolfenbüttel, clasped one of her tiny hands, glittering with diamonds, in his own, stroked her magnificent hair, and gazed into her face with silent rapture.
It was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon, and the coffee table, according to German custom at this hour, stood in the garden below draped in white, a silver coffee service glittered on the table, fragrant mountain strawberries lent a rich bit of colouring, and by one cup lay a spray of white roses.
The broken fountain suggested a feeling of loneliness, and the high old grey stone walls enclosing the castle shut it out—or in—from the world beyond, and all the events now transpiring behind them were a profound secret. The white-robed figure was literally dead and buried to the world, which had "assisted" at her funeral.
"Oh, Henry!" exclaimed Eva von Trotta, for the youthful form belongs to no other than this Fair Rosamond of Germany, "you strive to comfort me, but in vain. All your words of kindness and passionate love, cannot crush the worm that is gnawing at the thread of my life—cannot silence the voice of conscience. I must open my heart to you to-day, for every visit you make me here I tremble to think may be the last. And yet it is all wrong—all wrong, Henry; every visit, every gift from your dear hand is a sin against the good and noble-minded Duchess, once my motherly friend, a sin against your lawful children."
"Dear Eva," said Henry, interrupting her, "our children are lawful. I gave you my left hand at the altar, the wedding-ring and its diamond keeper glitter on this little hand I hold in mine. The Church has consecrated our union."
"That is only a hollow pretension. I see it all now. Look at this beautiful Prayer Book in gold and precious stones, and the Bible[1] with my name in gold on its cover," she continued, pointing to a small table where they lay.
[1] Luther's Bible appeared two years before this scene. Eva was Protestant.
"They were among your gifts on our—our—our marriage day. I come and sit here when alone, where I can look out on the mountains, and read them and seek consolation, but find none. They are a silent reproach to me. You had no right to give them, nor I to take them. And in my Bible I opened yesterday to St. Paul's words: 'the husband of one wife.' They pierced like daggers to my heart. Henry, Henry, I ought to flee this spot, and never see you more; and yet I cannot. I should die if I did not see your dear face sometimes, and hear your voice."
"My darling Eva, put away these harrowing thoughts; they are shortening your precious life."
"Oh! why did we meet? or meeting, why was it not earlier, when our love had been no sin? When I recall the affection and confidence of the Duchess, and reflect on my base, false friendship, my face burns with pain and shame. The world would curse me; she would too, if she knew. The watch I wear, that you gave me that last morning in the antechamber, when I was on duty as lady in waiting, reminds me of the flight of time, and the unceasing approach of a coming judgment. I never look upon it without a throb of bitter anguish. 'Nothing that loveth or maketh a lie' shall enter heaven—and my life is a lie. Oh, Henry! I shall perish eternally, and my noble boy will grow up to curse my memory;" and leaning her head on Henry's breast, she wept bitterly.
Probably Henry's own reflections were not of the most agreeable and consoling character, as he was thus compelled to recall his injustice and sin in his neglect of the Duchess. He gave, however, no expression to his misgivings, but only said, pointing to the coffee-table: "Let us think of this no more; dry up these childish tears, and let us go down—come, dear."
"My tears are not childish, Henry, only useless. But the world will discover our dreadful secret, the Duchess and her powerful father will complain to Kaiser and Pope, your visits will be forbidden—and what will become of me and my boy?"
"Eva, I will do what I before proposed, before you came here. I will seek a divorce from the Duchess, and we will be married in the face of the empire, and your boy, my favourite son, shall be my heir to the ducal throne."
"God forbid!" cried Eva in feverish, wild excitement, clasping her hands and looking up to heaven, in which attitude she presented such an enchanting grace and beauty that Henry caught her in his arms and covered her face and hair with kisses, calling her by every endearing name he could think of.